


radio silence

by angstyfanboi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Codependency, Drarry, Heartbreak, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, No Smut, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini if you squint, Past Relationship(s), Unhealthy Relationships, as in the Potters, canon compliant character's death, no beta we die like Hedwig, no coping mechanisms just pain, no happy ending, wolfstar if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstyfanboi/pseuds/angstyfanboi
Summary: It's been months since they broke up, seven to be exact, and even if the echoes of Draco's presence seem to have all faded, in midst of taking the first step to move on, Harry finds another reason to stay.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 13





	radio silence

**Author's Note:**

> All I need to say is: codependency at its finest. Wolfstar taking care of Harry after his parents die and that part won't be explored. Harry hung-over Draco. Draco running away from his problems. Not healthy but sometimes it is what it is.
> 
> The playlist I compiled for this fic can be found [HERE](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/28wMBMY6bz9szvgnw7pV94?si=b8fe81b7ebc74c9e)  
> Find me on twitter [HERE](https://twitter.com/taxianjuwun)

Harry finds it in midst of packing books that won’t spell his name if he opens on the first page.

It’s a yellowed paper, and it slowly wallows down until it stops by his feet. He knows, even before picking it up, who it belongs to; his heart, treacherous and longing, quickens as he bends over and his fingertips skim the smooth sheet, quickens as he holds it up to read the perfectly drawn cursive letter.

It’s a list.

A soft smile blooms before it fades to a slight humorlessness. Like the pang of bitterness inside a candy. The thunder-quick flash of the past before the train is gone and he’s back to the present.

He can’t even say it’s surprising. Draco loved making lists to concentrate, to _not_ forget, to be responsible enough for both. An over-achiever, an over-perfectionist, and perhaps for that, or in addiction to that, always over-prepared; listing things he had done during the day, things he had yet to start, things he had left halfway, things he needed to get, things he needed to let go of.

( _Harry wonders if one day, on one of those lists, his name too was carefully written, just like another grudge or finished bottle of perfume.)_

And it’s easy. It’s easy to get lost in the sudden blank hollowness, in the memories that were so well kept out of reach but suddenly seem to rush over in the quick motion of a falling yellowed paper, scribbled with perfectly drawn cursive letter. It’s so easy, Harry doesn’t notice he’s wrinkling the sheet until the moment he eases the grip and it’s beyond saving, no longer able to go back to its spotless state.

The realization has something snapping deep within his chest. His heart, that had picked up, halts as quickly, lungs unbreathing, eyes unseeing. This idle echo of warmth has cracked, and the scars will remain never to be erased; it feels oddly poetic and, at the same time, ironic, how this reflects what’s left of the ruins of their bond. How Harry is packing seven months later, and despite everything else being in boxes by now, he’s only found the strength to do this part today, carefully putting away books that aren’t his, and maybe now, no one’s.

And it’s easy.

It _had_ been easy.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Until it was easier to yell and point fingers for minimal things— a mug left unwashed, a curtain that stayed wide open during the night— because it was easier to address the fixable than to face the deep embedded abyss that had grown between them and was impossible to fill. Easier to sneer and to just-…

Walk away. Move somewhere unknown, leaving behind memoirs of his brilliant mind always craving for knowledge. Lists that spoke of his need to organize his thoughts though nothing on his silent exterior would tell anyone of how chaotic and loud they could get. Little shards that now stick to Harry’s skin and pierce deep enough they can’t be removed anymore, no matter it’s been so long the image of Draco is softer around the edges, like an old painting fading under the flow of time.

There’s nothing else as important as to cherish the now-wrinkled list, Harry supposes exhilarated, hysteric in a quiet, silent way. Inside, he feels like the crumbling of empires was too little compared to this; that the rise and fall of whole civilizations ends just short of having a magnitude big enough to make him feel on the edge of a limbo, like this forgotten paper does. And it’s easy. He’d forgotten how easy it always seems if Draco is one of the variables on the equation.

He doesn’t know how he ended on the couch, a weird position that no doubt would get him an earful back then; he can already feel the telltale of tingling uncomfortableness on the small of his back. But it doesn’t matter right now, for sure he’ll be complaining about it later but now… now it means nothing compared to what lays on his hands. He might’ve seen the familiar calligraphy— always, without fail, written in black—, the recognizable structure of circle bullets and lowercase, but he has yet to read the contents. For all his braveness, the _ease_ , he’s terrified, soaked in cold dread to the marrow of his achy bones.

Harry Potter. Terrified of someone who won’t come back. Of _the_ someone who wrote the list and won’t even be the same someone he must be now. Not that he’d known, of course, after months of radio silence, of sleepless nights and then sudden nights that stretched to mornings spent in bed, far too exhausted to face the world. Of seeing Pansy and Blaise on the street and reach forward, only to be met by twin glares that kept him frozen in place. But he had his fair share of wondering what has become of him, himself stuck in the middle of his hurt.

And he could dig under, look deeper, into the raw leftovers of his feelings, find what’s _really_ behind him, plowing fingers into his shoulders to pull him back from finally taking the leap. He could if only…

If only there weren’t too many things left unsaid. If only he didn’t have regrets, _so many_ regrets they cling to his throat and choke him, slowly, constantly. If he hadn’t so many reasons to feel like he has no right to still feel this way. If only he too hadn’t been wronged enough to be a personal kind of torture to still nurture the things he does.

But feelings are very rarely rational.

( _If Draco had been here and prying into his head, he’d scoffed at the obviousness._ )

( _But Draco is not here, and Harry’s suspicions of him being able to read minds, were only due to the way he felt bare under his gaze_.)

He takes a deep breath. Another for good measure, though nothing seems enough to prepare him. He thinks back to the lists of things that had been done, things that had yet to begun, things left undone, things lacking, things overdue, and hopes this is another list altogether, definitely not the last one, _hopefully_ not the last one.

Still, no matter how many breaths he takes, how much air swirls around within his lungs, staring at the words is like waiting for the sun to rise after centuries of dusk. He can’t help the overwhelming wave of yearning laced with venomous remorse that hooks around his heart and has him lowering the paper once more, falling harder against the couch, hoping he sinks low enough no one will be able to pull him out. And again, fantasies of what would happen had Draco been here, no doubt letting his gray eyes shine with mirth in a way only he ever realized, come faster than they should. He’d probably stand behind him, elbows on the back of the couch, peering over his shoulder with a soft smirk, more amused than malicious. He’d brush lips softened with watermelon chapstick on the arch of his cheekbone, bury his nose on his curls, let a careful hand wander to his shoulder in veiled comfort. Snap a “Get on with it, Potter” under his breath with nothing but unending patience and an equal amount of encouragement.

Those are the moments he misses the most. Not the passion seeking, the unbidden laughing, or the constant need for touch. But the unspoken understanding of what each of them needed, whether it was a push forward or a caring pair of arms wrapped like a barrier against the world. Just the bond that stretched around them both, pulling them together even when across a room full of people, that allowed them to exchange a look and know exactly what to do next. The moments when Harry didn’t need to feel so achingly, brokenly alone.

And because he’s already walking towards it, he decides to drag this a little more.

So, he begins to wonder where exactly they went wrong. When. _Why_.

Because despite what everyone around him had told him— Pansy and Blaise when they were still his friends, Draco although more gently, more subtly, Hermione with her direct words—, he had _still believed_ love was enough. But they were right: it isn’t. Because if it was, he’s sure he wouldn’t be packing boxes, afraid to even mess the order in which Draco had organized his endless collection of books, lest he senses it from wherever he is and comes back. Though… maybe he wouldn’t mind that much…?

With the way he’s reacting with a measly list, if he saw Draco right in front of him, fuming or not, he’s sure he wouldn’t make it. It’s like a punch to the gut, to realize that the memory he holds so close may no longer brush reality like it did when they parted. And by that he means… well, whatever can be said about getting home to an empty closet, his boyfriend (ex _, and if he never liked bitterness, this one is just_ too much) sitting, on the couch they bought together, with an air of finality in the way his eyes refused to move from his own.

And there hadn’t been a goodbye. Because Harry has lost too many people, faster than he could handle, and the word would make it all too real. Because Draco is emotional and feels _too deep_ , deeper than the center of the world, and he runs away from it, from _everything_.

Ran away he did, taking a part of Harry with him. Not a part of his heart, it’s still beating, or he wouldn’t be sitting here, hearing his heartbeat by his ears. But a fundamental part of him that had carried on from the moment he was born, like the ability to breathe, and he finds himself gaping at that empty spot only now realizing how something had been there before. Except, instead of making him feel lighter on his feet, it’s like the void sucks everything else, leaving him hollow yet unspeakably heavy.

He pushes the paper away, until it’s just another leftover list on the chaotic coffee table. Until it’s out of sight, easily blended with other sheets he has gone through before and committed to memory, to the point he could make out the slight pressure Draco adds on the punctuation marks, the way every time he signs his name his letter shrinks minimally, how the points on top of his ‘i’s’ are less like dots and more like empty circles. He could read a scribble and recognize fragments of Draco in each letter and written mannerism.

Now he understands what Ron had said about his focus sharpening when it was about him. It had just come naturally, and maybe now he recognizes it’s not exactly the healthiest habit but… it was easy too.

 _Too_ easy.

Looking around, maybe to focus on other things— to prove himself and no one else; people’s expectations of him had always been more than enough without him even lifting a finger— he takes in the state of mess of the apartment. Forces himself out of knee-jerk reaction that is to think ‘God, Draco would hate this’ ( _though the thought is already there, waiting for a moment of distraction to fully overtake his mind_ ) and instead decides to remind himself this is just temporary, and he’s alone dammit, he can’t honestly be so dependent and hung-over what others think of him specially if they’re unaware and _specially_ if they chose to leave. He knows better than this, always walking under the shadow of his parents’ greatness, followed by stares wherever he went, whatever he did. And yet, all those conclusions all but fly out of the window when he’s involved.

It doesn’t surprise him anymore, but it that doesn’t stop him from feeling frustrated and restless, far too much of a stranger on his own skin. Knowing it was unhealthy, he still went and made of Draco the brightest star on his own system and dedicated himself to revolve around him. Now that the light is gone, he struggles to find where to go, where to put his feet to walk forward safely. And reminding himself it’s been months doesn’t do anything but beat him down, because everyone told him he was strong and yet here he is, and he doesn’t feel any strength left.

It’s striking. To confront the idealized version of him and compare all the ways he’s more human. Less able to take over the world by storm and more down to earth in all the ways he maybe shouldn’t be. It’s striking. To stand in front of a mirror and realize the person staring back might as well not be him at all.

And yet… and yet, Draco hadn’t mistaken who he really was, not even in the beginning, with the antagonism and jealousy, with the barely concealed anger.

( _But not even after seeing the hidden versions of each other and still finding love in between the cracks, did they manage to make it work. If love isn’t enough, if knowing the barest parts of each other’s souls isn’t enough, then Harry has no idea what is._ )

Almost like Draco is behind him, like that one memory rising from longing and loneliness he had clung onto earlier, with sharp elbows digging into the fabric of the couch, a scent that lingers past the barriers of cherished recollections, and a touch just as warm and sticky that leaves a pink smirk-shaped mark behind, Harry hears the soft encouragement again, soft, so soft his fingertips tingle with brushes of velvet. And his directed focus isn’t the only thing Draco got with an ease it was laughable. Anything he asked— and it wasn’t much because no matter what he believed, Harry never saw him as selfish and he never acted as such. Spoiled and selfish aren’t the same thing, and that Harry _knows_ because he isn’t spoiled, but there’s not a chance he’ll share what’s undoubtedly _his_ with anything or anyone else—, and Harry would give him.

So, if he can taste on his lips the velvet soft encouragement, he’ll stop dancing around the outskirts of his wound, the gaping hole left raw and bleeding in an unseen place inside of him, and finally, _finally_ , push his fingers as far as they can go, rip the tissue apart, find the pulsing vein and close it shut, so the rest can be stitched and finally heal.

This time, when he reaches for the list, his fingers have ceased trembling. The scars of too much strength used are jagged marks on the side, a little inkless storm that has left charred stone fuming with the smell ozone. The cursive still burns right through him, but heat can cauterize wounds, so this won’t be any different.

He won’t _let it be_ any different.

From the two of them, Draco had the aristocratic— old blood and old money type— upbringing, leaving him with a fondness for fine arts, renaissance paintings, romantic poetry, and classic music. Harry, with much of his godfather and Remus’s influence, had naturally converged towards rock, and growing up with Hermione, Ron and the Weasleys, had made his tastes so eclectic anything would be enough to please him.

So, when he looks to the paper, to the words that he _recognizes_ , he…

He freezes.

Because these are songs _he’d_ listen too, songs he has on his playlists, songs that _speak_ to him.

And Draco wrote their names, their performers. Draco made a list out of them and every list has _meaning_ , every list _matters_ and…

And Draco made this list thinking about them.

The hysteria is back. A little breathless, a little broken, a lot out of his depth because _fuck_.

He _loves_ Draco Malfoy.

Not only that, but he’s _still_ in love with him.

And right now, he’s facing an echo of when things were _okay_. When they were together, sharing nights holding onto each other with a desperation that made others wonder if the end of the world was near. When they were together, cooking and watching movies and just moving under the same roof, sharing the same space, like another limb attached to each other that never faltered.

And Draco…

Draco thought of him. And he knows that much, he _knows_ , he never doubted he was loved, even with the way things ended, he _never_ doubted it. But Draco makes lists of things that _matter_.

And he mattered.

He mattered even when words weren’t spoken, mattered even when Draco wasn’t holding his hand. Mattered even to the point Draco would listen to songs that Harry could recite the lyrics of during his sleep and make a playlist that could translate _them_.

There’s no date. There’s nothing but “Songs that remind me of you” on top of the page followed by a list. A fucking list that despite its title, probably would’ve never been found if Harry hadn’t decided his remorse and broken heart had held him back for too long and he needed to move forward and away from this graveyard of a past long gone.

And even if they had worked out. Even if they had _stayed_ together…

Even then, he doubts he would’ve seen this.

Because that’s Draco. Far too proud, far too aware of how thin his ribs are, how easily his heart can be crushed. Making lists because he _must_ stay steady and make no mistakes. Keeping what’s important close to him so even if his memory fails him, _he_ won’t. Because in the end, Harry _knew_ Draco never relied on anyone as much as he relied on himself.

They had that in common. And that makes him see red before it blurs, the world _blurs_ , and he realizes he’s crying.

He had cried when Draco walked out of the door, no matter how quietly it had all been— surprising, considering all the pressure and yelling from the previous months, or maybe not surprising at all. Had cried until everything felt dry and cold and he couldn’t find any tears left. And then came the emptiness, the insomnia and, later, the exhaustion. But no more tears.

Until now, it seems.

He can’t afford to lose this list, yet he refuses to let go of it as he hugs the paper to his chest almost desperately, curls on the couch ( _right side, away from the door. Past the blur, he can almost see Draco on the other end, not questioning his choice,_ protecting _him in his subtle, zealous way_ ), and sobs like a little child, wide-eyed as the doctors talk in hushed tones to his godfather, moving closer to Remus’s comforting chest hoping if he gathers enough warmth, the walls will stop feeling so cold. Sobs like he hasn’t sobbed in months, chokes on tears and air and feels himself plunge into an abyss within, the unhealed, empty space he refused to poke at, love shaped.

And that’s how Ron finds him in the morning, still crying and shaking, pressing a tear-stained paper to himself, like letting it go would be like watching Draco leave for a second time.


End file.
